


Among the Fallen

by Snooty_Alpaca



Series: Thorin's Life [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Good Uncle Thorin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thorin has PTSD, Uncle Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3889180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snooty_Alpaca/pseuds/Snooty_Alpaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin accompanies a trading caravan to Rohan. They are ambushed and his brother-in-law is killed and Thorin is gravely injured. He dreads telling his sister and his young nephews.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rohan: West Emnet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a one-shot but it got a bit out of hand.

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.  
The massive characters are seared with scars.

\- Khalil Gibran

  **T.A. 2868, Fall - Rohan: West Emnet**

The small caravan passed through the gap of Rohan around noon earlier the day before. The leaves on the trees were beginning to be tinged with gold that glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. Thorin groans and shifts his position on the hard wooden bench of the wagon. He had pressed them onwards rather than stopping for a midday meal. It was late in the season to be only this far south. This was their last trading party into Rohan before winter sets in and they had gotten a late start _. With how the past few winters have been we'll be very lucky if we get home before the snows come._ He had other reasons for pressing the company hard through the Dunland and the Gap of Rohan. His dealings with the Dunlendings in the past had been less than pleasant and he was sure that they would not have changed much since his people had lived in their lands. He always expects trouble when passing through their lands. They were poor and they had little love of dwarves.

Thorin shifts again. This time it is to twist his back that is stiff from the many hours spent seated on an uncomfortable bench. He had woken up with a stiff back - a side effect of subpar sleep - and he chosen to keep his job of driving when he could have easily passed it off on someone else. He could have chosen to sleep in the back on a pile of the furs they had brought south with them alone with weapons and all sorts of small metal trinkets. His companion snorts. Thorin turns to look at the man riding on his right. He scowls at the younger dwarf. "Anything you'd like to say?"

The heavily tattooed dwarf – Thorin has his own tattoos but they are all in places that can easily be covered by his clothing – looked back at his leader. "Uncomfortable?"

Thorin made an annoyed sound before turning back to the ponies whose reins he was holding. On a road like this they did not really need any real guidance, but it gave Thorin a good reason to avoid his friend's eyes. "We need to keep moving. I don't want to get stuck on the east bank of River Lhûn like last year.” He flicked the reins. “It took us an extra three weeks to get home and Kafur’s boy almost lost some of his fingers.” He shakes his head, “I just want to get everyone home safe this time with no mishaps.”

Thorin and Dwalin’s eyes meet before Dwalin nods his head. Silence resumes between the two. There are three wagons among the six dwarves. There was Vrílí, Thorin’s brother-in-law, Kafur, Kaïz, and Lörwid. There were others who were with the group as guards. Thorin recognized many of them, but did not know any of them personally. The guards accompanied the caravan to protect it against any threats that it might encounter. _Hopefully it never comes to that_. Over the many years that he had been making the trip down the Old South Road there had been little of concern beyond the fickle weather of the months preceding winter.

Thorin groans as he stretches again. The sun was hanging low in the pale autumn sky. He knows that they should stop soon. He can hear some grumbling among the guards. _Probably something about not stopping for midday and continue later than normal._ Thorin frowns. He does not want to company to stop yet. He wants to get a few more miles into Rohan before setting up camp for the night. “How vexed do you think they will be if we don’t stop until its dark?” Thorin directs his question to his companion.

Dwalin leans over the edge of the seat to look at some of the guards and back to the two other covered wagons. “Very,” he replies shortly. “They look upset as it is. If we had stopped to eat at the sun’s highpoint you could press them further. But morale will be very low if you do and there will likely be much grumbling if you plan to press them hard tomorrow.”

“Tell them we’ll stop on the other side of this hill. There’s a copse of trees that will offer some shelter and firewood,” Thorin bites out. His irritation is showing. Something does not feel right. He has been scanning the horizon and his surroundings all day; he keeps expecting to see some of the Rohirrim. That would not be something unexpected, in fact, he would welcome them with open arms at this point. Normally they would have seen some of the men who lived in these lands by now. It has him on edge. He’d much rather ride through the night even though he knows that the ponies cannot handle it, much less his men.

:::

The wagons were set up in a circle. Each of the wagons had two beds set up. The guards who were not on duty would sleep under the wagons where they would be safe from any rain or snow. They kept the fire low and the wind had turned cool as it whips in between the wagons. He sits shoulder to shoulder with Dwalin and Vrílí. “How are your little one doings?” Thorin asks Vrílí to break the silence. The family shares quarters at Ered Luin, but Thorin has spent much of the past year far from home. He had spent some of the year continuing searching for his father who had disappeared some eighteen years previously. He had spent much of the rest of the year visiting some of his kin who lived far away. Balin and Dís had been left in charge while he was away. Thorin is positive that that they have done well, from all that Dwalin has told him things have been kept under control.

Thorin was more than happy to be done with those negotiations. He had been all but begging on his knees for aid. He was not sure how his people would make it through the winter. This last trip into Rohan was important, they needed to sell their goods for as much as they could. They would need any supplies to just survive until the spring thaw. That’s why he was here, maybe in Edoras he could speak to Folcwine. His father and grandfather had been friendly with the royalty of Rohan during the years that they had spent in and near the kingdom of men. He would not be asking for charity, just a fair price of good products.

“They’ve been good,” Vrílí says with a smile. His long unbound hair falls forward over his shoulders when he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Kíli’s such a little trouble maker. I thought that Fili was bad but the two of them together . . .” he laughs softly.

“I know what you mean. You should have seen Dís and Frerin when they were little. Frerin used to be pretty quiet. But once Dís could walk they got in so much trouble together. Our parents actively tried to keep them apart if only one of them would be around,” Thorin chuckled, bumping shoulders with his brother-in-law.

“I feel a little bad that I left her alone with the little monsters. Fíli’s getting too smart for his own good. He was trying to convince Dís that she should give him cookies for doing the homework that Balin and his other tutors give him,” he laughs. “And it almost worked.”

“Maybe I should have him visit the other dwarf families,” Thorin says looking down at his hands and back at his brother-in-law – _my only brother now_ – “Or, at least, have him convince Dís that I deserve sweets for getting all of my work done.” A smile pulls at his lips. The smile feels almost unnatural on his face after so long without smiles. Since Azanulbizar Fíli and his little brother, Kíli, where the main things that made him smile on a day-to-day basis. He missed those two every day that he was away.

The two exchanged grins.

Dwalin sat silently next to Thorin. He was listening to the conversation, but he felt the same uneasiness that Thorin felt. Something just was not right. These lands were not heavily populated by any means, but he could not remember any other time where they had not passed any other wagons or riders on the Old South Road this close to Edoras. He kept one eye on the dwarves who were on guard duty and the other on his king. He listened to the conversation, but he had more than an ear for the sounds of the night. There are no sounds that are out of the ordinary. The fact that nothing is out of the ordinary sets him more on edge. The sounds are too ordinary and expected when other things are not as they should be.

Thorin was trying to relax and have a conversation with Vrílí but Dwalin’s stiffness to his right kept part of him on edge. _Mahal, man, could you be any more alert?_ But that was Dwalin’s job. Thorin and the younger dwarf became close after Azanulbizar. Dwalin had helped pull Thorin from the dark place that he had descended to after his younger brother’s death. They were friends but Dwalin always took his job as Thorin’s protector seriously. His father, Fundin, had been Thrór’s captain of the guard, and then Thráin’s – if only for a short time. Balin was the elder son, but he was more inclined to diplomacy and books and Dwalin was a great deal more brutish than his scholarly brother. He may not bear an official title but he assigned himself the duty and he took it very seriously.

Thorin breaks from his conversation with Vrílí to lean over to whisper in Dwalin’s ear, “Is there anything amiss?”

The large dwarf heaves a heavy sigh. “No. But that is what worries me.”

“Oh really? What wouldn’t worry you?” Thorin teases playfully. He can feel the tenseness in the air. No one in the camp is truly relaxed even if they are giving off the appearance of a normal evening in camp.

Thorin rises and rolls his shoulders. “I’m going to retire,” he tells his companions. Dwalin follows him. The large dwarf insisted on sharing the wagon with his king. _‘Better for your protection_ , _’_ was what he told Thorin. The king had snorted but had allowed his friend to sleep where he wanted. Sometimes it was like having a second shadow at times, but Thorin does not mind. Being alone by this point in his life feels unnatural. Growing up he was always followed by his younger brother. The years between Frerin being his shadow and Dwalin being his shadow had been dark years for him, but they were years that he tried his best to forget. In the rare stretches of time that he was in Ered Luin for more than a few days Fíli and Kíli became his shadows. They would hang on the tails of his tunic no matter how much he tried to leave them with their mother.

The beds in the back of the wagons are narrow and less comfortable than the bed at home, but it was much better than the hard ground. The night before he had been unable to sleep due to nightmares. He had woke up before the moon set and had been unable to fall asleep again. The dreams were full shapeless fears, darkness, and loss. They woke him breathless, sweating, and gasping for air in the middle of the night. Thorin is asleep almost before his head rests on his balled up cloak. He toes off his heavy boots, but is asleep before he can remove any more of his clothing and armor.

:::           

Thorin is jerked from sleep by a hand on his shoulder. Instinct has him grabbing for the dagger at his belt. “Thorin!” – a sharp, harsh whisper – stops his movement. He squints trying to see in darkness. The growl in the voice makes it hard for his sleep heavy brain to identify.

“Dwa-?”

A hand clamps over his mouth; a hand that smells like oil and smoke.

“Shh…”

 _‘Definitely Dwalin,’_ Thorin thinks as he shoves himself upright.

“Quiet,” Dwalin orders. Thorin has to surprise a snort, he is not used to being on the receiving end of orders anymore. “Dunlendings,” Dwalin rumbles as he grabs his gears as quietly as he can.

All sleep is banished from Thorin’s mind at that word. He shoves his feet into his heavy boots and grabs his sword.

“What’s the plan?” Dwalin asks turning to face his king.

The curtain on the tail end of the wagon is ripped aside just as Thorin is opening his mouth to speak. “Out,” orders a large man with a heavy accent. “Now.”

The bright light from the built of fire blinds Thorin. He is the closest to the door. He turns to Dwalin to give the big dwarf a headshake to indicate that they were going to do as the man said.

“I said out,” the man snarled in his heavy accent. He grabbed the back of Thorin’s tunic and dragged him out of the wagon backwards. The distance from the floor of the wagon is only a few feet, but the impact of landing flat on one’s back is painful. Thorin gasps when he lands. He groans as he tries to roll over onto his side, but the man’s boot lands hard on his chest. He begins to swear.

Dwalin leaps out of the wagon and knocks the man over with a shout. There is a spray of red as Dwalin slices the man’s throat. Thorin flinches when droplets of warm blood land on his face. He does not have a chance to see what was going on before the moment but everything becomes chaos quickly.

Thorin forces himself to his feet as his chest muscles protest his movements. He tries to force a deep breath only to bow over coughing as the muscles spasm. Shouting and the clashes of sword on sword surround him. For just a moment the men are not Dunlendings but orcs. Rather than a backdrop of wagons and firelight he sees mountains rising high into the sky. The smoke is not from a small campfire but from something far larger.

“Mahal,” he swears as he tries to gauge what is happening in the camp. The men are dressed in little more than rags. _‘Thieves.’_ He blocks a sword that is swung at his head – a sword that is rusted and full of dents – and shoves the man backwards knocking him to the ground. Before he can dispatch the man who is glaring up at him with burning eyes an arm wraps around his throat and jerks him backwards.

Thorin drops his stance – bending his knees – to shift so one of his feet is outside of the much taller mans. He jabs backwards into the man’s stomach with his sword arm while grabbing the arm that is tight around his throat with his free hand. Thorin jerks forward dragging the man’s arm down and bending him over. Thorin twists hard to his left; pulling the man over his right shoulder.

“Thorin!”

Thorin turns to see who called his name while retaining his hold on the Dunlending’s arm. Vrílí’s eyes are fixed behind Thorin. Thorin spins around – dropping his knee to pin the man to the ground – he turns just in time to see a very young man – _‘He cannot be that much older than Fíli’_ – with a bow and arrow drawn and pointing directly at Thorin.

Thorin quickly dispatches the man under his knee before turning his full attention to the boy. He takes a step towards the boy with sandy hair, “Why don’t you put the bow down?”

The boy shakes his head and draws the string further back.

Thorin stops. The boys golden hair reminds him so much of his eldest nephew. He looks nothing like the other men in the party. He is not dark haired with swarthy skin. _‘Rohirrim.’_ “Where are you from, lad?” Thorin reaches outward with his free hand, his right hand still holds his sword but the tip is low to the ground.

The boy tenses, his green eyes flick away from Thorin to fighting by the fire.

“Look at me,” Thorin orders. “Just me,” he adds softly. “Where are you from?”

“Edoras,” the boy says or at least that is what Thorin thinks the young man says. The blonde boy did not speak loud enough to actually be heard over the din of the fight.

“If you put the bow down I can make sure you make it back,” Thorin promises taking another step forward.

“Madwel!” the boy turns his head away from Thorin to look beyond the dwarf king. The boy’s eyes go wide and he gives a nod. Thorin refuses to look back to see what the boy is looking at; he takes another step closer. In two steps he will be close enough to grab the bow. _‘What then?’_ he demands of himself. He cannot answer that question. He has seen far too many boys die in his life. He does not want to see another die especially when his heart is not in what he is doing.

The boys green eyes are back and fixed on Thorin. “Madwel, let’s put the arrows away,” Thorin pleads softly.

Vrílí appears from behind the wagons. Thorin shakes his head and mouths ‘no’. Vrílí frowns and keeps moving until he is standing right behind the boy.

The boy pulls the string further; his shoulders are trembling. Vrílí looks over the blonde boy’s shoulder at his king. Thorin shakes his head. Vrílí shakes his head. He seizes the boy around the shoulders from behind. Madwel makes a squeaking noise in surprise, he kicks out with his feet as he is lifted from the ground. In his surprise Madwel releases the string of his bow.

Thorin grunts in pain as the arrow thuds into his thigh knocking him off balance. He stumbles back and falls down. _‘Mahal,’_ Thorin swears looking at the careful fletching of the arrow that protrudes from his thigh. 

It hurts more than he remembered. He had been struck by arrows a few times during the War. Five years was a long time. Thorin and Frerin had sustained their fair share of injuries. The War left Thorin was many injuries, some never healed. _‘Never,’_ he shakes his head vigorously to remove the images that were rising to the surface of his mind unbidden. _‘Not today. There’s no time for this right now!’_ He pushes down memories of orcs that crowd his mind.

The fallen dwarf jerks his hand away when someone seizes it.

“Thorin, it’s me.”

Thorin shakes his head again to clear his vision. Vrílí is standing over him. His blonde hair and beard have flecks of blood resting on the hairs. Thorin looks at the hand offered to him and the dagger that Vrílí holds in his other hand. He forces a swallow when he sees the bright blood on the blade and on his brother-in-law’s hands. He jerks his head away when he sees blonde hair caught in the crimson blood. _‘How does he not see it? How did he not see Fíli in that boy?’_ Thorin feels sick to his stomach. He lets the blonde dwarf help him to his feet and he pointedly ignores the crumpled heap with blonde hair that now lies on the edge of the firelight. Thorin looks back at the fire to see how everything was progressing.

A stout man with dark and greasy hair is staring directly at Thorin and Vrílí. Thorin meets the man eyes – eyes that are full of anger. Thorin feels a surge of rage that this man is angry about the outcome of something that he chose to do. The man’s eyes flick away from Thorin’s to look beyond the dwarf king and his brother; look beyond the two dwarves the body of the blonde boy.

“MADWEL!” The man charges at Vrílí and Thorin, his eyes are wide and wild with rage. He is joined by two other men who look similar enough to be his brothers.

Vrílí snaps his head in the direction of the shout. He instinctively pushes his king behind him. An instinct born from years of combat training. The blonde dwarf draws his double swords and drops into a crouch. Thorin draws his own sword, but he cannot crouch. The arrow in his thigh tears and rips his flesh as he tries to shift into a more defensive position.

“Mahal, I forgot how much arrows _hurt_ ,” Thorin laughs to his brother-in-law.

“Nah, they don’t hurt that much. You’re just a dwarfling,” Vrílí teases over his shoulder with a chuckle.

Neither has time to say anything else before the men are upon them. “I’ll take the blonde one. You lot take care of the other bastard,” the man snarled. His dark, rage filled eyes were locked on Vrílí.

Thorin had a moment to see the flash of Vrílí’s swords before he had to turn and defend himself. Thorin blocks the first blow that is aimed at his head. He stumbles back at the force of it as he leg gives out from under his weight as he tries to brace himself to reinforce his block. Before he can commit to a counterstrike he is forced to respond to the second man’s swing. He struggles as his leg keeps giving out and refusing to move as quickly as he needs it to.

A shout laden with surprise and pain draws his attention away from the men attacking him. He manages to maneuver so that he can see Vrili. Only Vrili is not there.

Then Dwalin was there with a roar, a shout, and his sword. Thorin turns his attention back to the men who are intent on him. He sees the sword swinging down and his block is far too late. His sword is up but he is blocking with the tip and the man pushes past the block. Thorin grunts when the sword thuds deep into his shoulder. His arm goes numb from the impact and his nerveless fingers drop his sword. He swears as he makes to grab for the dropped sword. His blood pounds in his ears and he hears Dwalin say something, but it’s as if he’s hearing it through a great distance.

Dwalin shoved his king behind him so that Thorin was wedged between the wagon and his captain of arms. The large dwarf stands between the men and his king. Dwalin makes quick work of the men who are left. Blood sprays off the tattooed dwarf’s sword. Thorin recoils when some of the blood lands on him. Thorin slides to the ground panting heavily. Flashes of another day cover his vision. Orcs instead of men, snow rather than colored leaves, Frerin rather than Vrílí. _‘Shit, Vrílí . . .’_

The fighting is all but over now. The man that is left is on his knees in front of Dwalin and sobbing. Thorin can tell by the expression on his face that he is begging for his life even if he cannot hear the specific words. He had barely felt the sword wound except for the numbness and shock, but now it feels like it and the arrow wound are fire. They burn. _‘Vrílí.’_ None of the other dwarves were paying much attention to their leader, they were checking on the wounded and he seems to have escaped their attention for the moment.

Thorin drags himself over to his brother-in-law’s side. “Vrílí?” He grabs the blonde dwarf’s shoulder to roll him onto his back. Thorin winces and groans audibly when he sees the wounds. “Vrílí?” he says louder. He presses his fingers to the pulse point under Vrílí’s beard. Nothing. Thorin hangs his head and presses the palm of his hand onto Vrílí’s chest. His fingers dig into the brown tunic that Dís spent hours embroidering. The white stitching around the collar is stained red now.

“Oh, my brother,” he exhales softly. He closes his eyes and rubs his thumb over Vrili’s chest. He feels his vision flickering and fading. _‘No. You CANNOT pass out, not now,’_ he orders himself. _‘You’re a king now. Not a child. They’re going to think you’re weak if you cannot do this.’_ He shoves himself back so he rocks on his heels and to his feet only to be caught by someone.

“My lord,” Dwalin’s voice is in his ear. “What would you like us to do with the dead?”

“Bury our own,” he whispers, “but burn those bastards.” The pain from his shoulder has been steadily increasing but now it is too much. The darkness that had been lingering on the edges of his vision consumes him now. He falls back into Dwalin’s arms.

:::

Dwalin catches his king. “You heard him. Get to it!” he growls.

“Thorin. Thorin. Thorin,” he murmurs as he lowers his friend to the ground and wiping the hair out of his eyes. He grimaces when he peels away the king’s armor and clothing to see the shoulder wound. It was deep and already red around the edges. _‘Fever, already?’_ Dwalin frowns. This cannot be good. Dwarves rarely sicken from disease, but wounds could become infected and bring them to their knees because the wounded often ignored cleanliness because they trusted far too much in their immunity.

He rises to his feet and looks around the ruins of their camp. “When we’re done with this we move on. We go to Edoras.”


	2. Rohan: Edoras

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.  
The massive characters are seared with scars.

\- Khalil Gibran

**T.A. 2868, Fall - Rohan: Edoras**

It has been almost two days since the battle with the Dunlendings on the borders of Rohan and Thorin has not regained consciousness. Dwalin refuses to leave his king’s side; he rides in the back of the wagon just watching and waiting. Lörwid is driving the wagon they ride in. Lörwid has the greatest knowledge of the healing arts among them – something he was passing on to his son – and if anything should change then Dwalin and Lörwid will switch places without slowing down the caravan. For now, however, Dwalin just watches.

He rises and paces as well as he can – the wagon is four steps from one end to the other – to stretch his legs. This waiting is killing him. They did what they could for Thorin and continued to do so but they did not have the means to properly care for any wounds that were beyond the minor scrapes and cuts. He growls with impatience as he pushes the covering open to see Lörwid and the road ahead.

“How much further?” Dwalin demands of the elderly dwarf.

“See that hill, laddie?” Lörwid points straight ahead down the road. “That’s it. That’s how much further.”

Dwalin squints but he cannot see the ‘hill’ that Lörwid is talking about. He snorts before entering the dark, covered part of the wagon again. The light breeze moves the canvas covering. It would have been peaceful with the flaps opening and closing gently with the soft noises of slapping fabric but for the uncomfortable and oppressive feeling. Dwalin drops down on the bed across for Thorin.

He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and watches his king. His fingers twitch with the desire to check to the status of the wounds. Lörwid had yelled at him for doing that earlier. _‘The wounds won’t heal faster just because you keep looking at them!’_ had been his words. _‘They’ll take two fortnights to heal. . . . If everything goes as well.’_ Dwalin knew what would happen if everything did not go well. Everyone in the company knew what would happen.

Dwalin runs his hands over his face roughly. “Dammit, Thorin. You cannot do this. Dís’ll kill me. She might kill me as it is for letting you get injured.” He snorts in amusement remembering the years that he and his brother had spent growing up with Dís during and after the War. She had been older than both of them are and spent a lot of time bossing around the two of them. Things got messy after the war and a bunch of the younger dwarves who had not yet reached their majority were placed together. Dís used to wallop him on the head for fun when they were both little. She had a right hook punch that he still thinks about as he rubs his jaw.

“But even if she doesn’t I don’t want to be the one to tell her about this mess. She does not care for me the way that she cares about you, you thick-headed dolt.”

:::

They reached Edoras early the next morning. Dwalin scowls at the men, women, and children who gave them odd and curious looks. They are stopped at the gates by austere faced guards.

“Halt.”

Dwalin frowned at the man. Since he was standing on the wagon, he was the same height as the guards who watched the small caravan nervously.

“What is your business in Edoras?”

Dwalin took a deep breath. He was half-tempted to box this guard’s – he was barely hold enough to have any hair on his chin – this _boy’s_ ears for being rude and disrespectful but Lörwid spoke up first.

“Our king, Thorin II, son of Thráin has been gravely injured. We seek aid from Folcwine, Horse-Lord.” Lörwid speaking was probably best in the long run.

The guard’s eyes narrows. “You’ll have to wait here. We’ll send someone along to hall to see if he is willing to see any dwarves.”

Dwalin is about to open his mouth to speak when Lörwid elbows him hard in the shin. He curses down at the older dwarf as he reaches down to massage his injured limb.

“Sit,” Lörwid hisses.

Dwalin scowls. He hates waiting. He always had. All of those years that the Durins, his father, and many others spent fighting the War from Gundabad to Moria had been spent chaffing at the bit as they were all forced to wait with little or no news.  He had only been twenty-seven at the time, more than a decade short of his maturity. He had raged at Balin when they heard of Dain’s feats at Azanulbizar. The boy was only five years older than Dwalin – a boy just the same as he was a lad – and he had turned the course of that battle. He and Balin had waited all of those years to learn of their father’s death. Years that were far too long for Dwalin’s liking. He could not sit still for very long. He had always been that way. Fundin had often scolded him for squirming at the dinner table.

A lad runs down the hill and whispers into one of the guards ears. “You can proceed. Alan here will show you where to park the wagons,” the guard gestured to the lad whose helmet was far too big. It wobbled around his head when he nodded his head in agreement with the other soldiers.

The wagons follow the boy to an open space near the bottom of the grand, wide steps that lead up to the palace hall of the Rohirrim. The dwarves begin to assemble themselves.

“Only two of you can enter the hall. The rest of you will have to wait down here,” the boy pipes up with his high-pitch voice.

Dwalin frowns at the boy. The boy’s arms are thin and his clothing hangs off a thin frame. _‘Young. Too young. So why a soldier?’_ There is not discussion of who will be talking to Folcwine. Dwalin and Lörwid follow Alan up the steps where they are forced to remove all of their weapons. It takes Dwalin several minutes to hand over all of his knives, he does leave the one that is strapped to his inner forearm in place. Being without a weapon makes him feel like he is naked. Fundin had given Dwalin his first knife when he was fifteen and he had not been without some sort of weapon since that day.

Dwalin stops to look in the darkened back of the wagon where Thorin lays wrapped in blankets. His cheeks glow red and are shiny with sweat. A twinge of worry passes through Dwalin as he looks upon his king and shield brother. He had sworn to protect his king, but from this, from fever and infection there is little he can do and he feels useless. He would prefer to be dealing with whatever this was partially because it would mean that he would not be incessantly worrying.

The ‘golden’ hall is dark with deep shadows. Light that normally might be streaming through the upper windows are dimmed by the clouded sky. A fire is lite in the center of the great hall, but the far edges and corners are still shroud in darkness. The smoke from the fire fills the rafters and the room is hazy. It those dark shadows Dwalin can see the figures of men pacing. He watches them for a few brief moments before turning his attention back to the man who is lounging on the throne on the other side of the fire. The bright light of the fire blocks the king’s face until the two dwarves circle around the large, circular fire pit.

Dwalin has seen the kings of Rohan before, but this one looks far more haggard than his predecessors. His long blonde hair looks like it has not been cared for a quite some time and deep creases line his face despite his fairly young age.

Both dwarves bow to the king when they stay in front of him.

“Dwarves from Ered Luin,” Folcwine sits up from his lounging position so that he can get a better look at Dwalin and Lörwid. “What brings you here?”

Dwalin takes a step forward. “We were coming her for trading. We encountered brigands on the road. Our company took some injuries and some loses. Our leader, Thorin Oakenshield, took injury during the struggle and has taken ill. We are hoping for aide and a place to stay until he is well enough to travel.” _‘Blunt, but . . . that’s everything that needs to be said.’_

Folcwine leans forward resting his elbow on his knee and resting his chin in his hand. “If we were to extend help to you and your leader what will you do for us? Times are hard everywhere, we cannot freely give.”

Dwalin does not answer. He resists that urge to snap _‘Well, what is it that you want?’_ He can hear Balin’s voice telling him that it would not be diplomatic to do so. Lörwid steps forward in Dwalin’s silence.

“What services would you require of us, sire?”

“I’m sure that you have brought some weapons that you have forged with you. I have heard of the renown of dwarven forging. However, we need more than a few swords. We need a great number of swords, other weapons, and armor. We’ve been having great problems with orcs on our borders. They have been bothering our people for over six decades. But in the past few years they have come over our borders in great numbers and killing a great many of my people. Our skirmishes with them led to the death of our previous king, my father several years ago. Our soldiers are not nearly as well-equipped as I would like.

“I would ask that you sell me and my armor your swords and forge more for use in payment for the aide that we will give you.”

Dwalin exhales loudly through his nose. _‘The help that we will receive will be only worth a small fraction of what our skills are worth.’_ He wishes that he could deny the king’s request, but if he does, what does that mean for his liege and king.

_‘Offer him a gift, you numbskull!’_ He hears Balin’s voice demanding in his head. Dwalin quickly runs through the inventory of their wagons. There was a sword in the wagon that Vrílí was particularly fond of, he had shown it to Dwalin glowing with pride. Thorin’s fallen brother would want that piece to be used to save his brother and king.

“Let us offer you a gift. One of our best smiths forged a sword of special excellence, and I would like to give it to you in our gratitude.”

A fierce smile spreads across Folcwine’s face at the mention of a particularly well-made blade. “Enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He stands. “We are a bit short on space with the influx of people coming into the city. We can put Oakenshield up in a room here in the Hall – I will send my personal healer to him. However, we can put the rest of you in the loft of the stables.”

:::

The healer was an elderly man with an assistant. The assistant was very young. Dwalin had a feeling that most men of a certain age were far off in patrols or dead. The old man was poking around at the deep wound in Thorin’s shoulder muscle. Thorin was lost still to the fever; his eyes were roving under his eyelids. Dwalin flinches as the old man pressed on the inflamed, red flesh around the wound. _‘At least he cannot feel it.’_

The healer presses on the wound to force out yellowish pus from the wound abscess. Dwalin snorts at the smell. It was a familiar smell, _‘Death, decay, battlefields.’_ It just was not one that he was used to encountering in situations involving his shield brother.

The healer then started smearing a goopy substance onto the wound. “What’s that?” Dwalin demanded, stepping forward watching the man’s hands with suspicion.

“The weapon that was used for this wound was dirty and not very sharp at all. It has caused an infection. This,” he lifts his hand with the goopy substance on it, “is rosemary, garlic, and marshmallow root. Rosemary to promote healing from the deepest point outwards. Garlic to fight the infection. And marshmallow root for the pain that accompanies and infection of this sort.”

Dwalin grunts. “How long until he can travel?”

The man’s faded hazel eyes flick in Dwalin’s direction. Normally with a wound such as this it would take nearly two fortnights to heal, but this infection will lengthen that progress. I would say two fortnights at the very least if not longer.” He speaks as he bandages the wound securely.

_‘Two fortnights . . . There will likely be snow in Ered Luin by then. It will make the journey home that much more difficult.’_ Dwalin looks at his king. _‘But if we must wait then we must.’_

:-:-:

_White snow lays upon the ground. None of the snow is undisturbed; it has been churned and trampled by boots of dwarves and orcs. Snow that is not white in most places. The tussled snow is mixed with dirt and blood. He stares at the ground and around him. The battle is over and he feels lost. The physical chaos has given way to emotional chaos. He wants desperately to hit something and to scream at the sky._

_He feels like he is containing a violent spring storm inside his chest. He_ needs _to do something with his hands. He_ needs _to do something to release the energy that is threatening to tear him apart. His breath is coming hard and fast. Each breath seems to fuel the fire in his chest. He cannot hear through the sound of his own breathing, his own heartbeat, and the wind roaring through his body. Everything about his surroundings feels like it is coming from a great distance._

_A single thought breaks through the storm,_ ‘Frerin.’ _He has not seen his baby brother in quite some time. He has not seen Fundin either. His father had placed Frerin with Fundin in a rear vanguard by Mirrormere. Fundin had not been pleased to be placed so far from the side of his king. His brother’s name is now running through his mind. His name is simply added to the storm inside of him._

_Then he is kneeling in the blood stained snow holding his brother’s body. He had found Fundin first, but he had just passed over his father’s friend – the panicked storm only increasing in intensity – only to see his brother’s copper hair spread on the snow. Crimson blood mixes with copper hair. Crimson blood stains his fingers as he brushes Frerin’s hair back from his face – a face that is far too pale under the brilliant red – to see his baby brother’s face._

_The pressure in his chest keeps mounting. Until . . . there is nothing . . ._

:-:-:

Dwalin watches his king as he sleeps fretfully. The sheets wrapped around Thorin cling to him with sweat. Thorin wakes with a violent start. His eyes are wild with fever and sleep. His chest glistens with sweat and heaves with gasping breaths.

“Thorin?”

Thorin’s blue eyes – brighter than normal due to the fever – turn to Dwalin. He does not respond but his breathing softens and the panicked edges on his face become less pronounced. Dwalin has seen fever before in some of the men that have come through their settlements over the years but he was sure that not all of them bore crazed expressions.

He scoots his chair closer to the side of the bed and places his hand heavily on the blankets. Dwalin does not look away from Thorin’s face. He does not need to speak his eyes repeat the question for him.

“Azanulbizar.”

The one word answer tells Dwalin all that he needs to know. _‘Battle sickness.’_

“I was there again. I’ve been there before, but it was only feelings and sensations. I never _saw_ the battlefield. I never saw my brother. I never saw your father. I never saw the snow, the blood, the . . .” his voice hitches and makes a choked noise.

Dwalin does not speak. _‘What could I say? Nothing . . .’_

When Thorin does continue speaking, his hands are balled up in the bedding, and there are tears brimming on his eyelashes. “My brother . . . my fault. I haven’t relived that since, well, you know . . .” He trailed off.

Dwalin does remember those days, those long years after Azanulbizar. Dís had sent him to drag her alcohol soaked brother home too many times for Dwalin to count. Thorin had been a different man during those years. He and Dís spent a lot of time discussing about how to drag her errant brother out of the battle sickness. She had always been more knowledgeable about it, Dwalin was better at implementing those plans. He remembers the day the finally broke through to Thorin with startling clarity. That day was a day that Dwalin was proud of; Thorin had stepped up after that day. He had stepped up even with the black eyes that Dwalin had given him.

Dwalin placed his large paw over Thorin’s clenched fist and squeezes. “Frerin wasn’t your fault. Vrílí isn’t your fault either. You’re our king, but you’re not responsible for everything that happens to us.” Dwalin looks down at his hand that is covering Thorin. “I’m damn well responsible for my behaviors and mistakes.” Thorin chuckles – a choked and sad sound – at that.

Thorin lays back on the bed and closes his eyes.

“Thorin?”

No response. Dwalin shakes his head. _‘Asleep. Already. He probably won’t remember this tomorrow.’_ Dwalin wishes that Balin or Dís were here rather than all of those miles away in Ered Luin. They knew so much more about battle sickness. Not all dwarves that went through the War or other battles ended up never being able to leave the field of battle, but some, like Thorin, kept returning to the battlefield in their dreams.

Dwalin sometimes sees that men that he has killed in his dreams, but they are just dreams that never affect him the way that Thorin’s affect him. _‘He takes responsibility for everyone. He’s just too hard on himself most of the time.´_ He remembers his father’s words about Thorin when they were all just lads with fathers to take care of them. Now, they are the ones who take care of everyone else and one another.

Dwalin squeezes Thorin’s hand again before letting go and leaning back in his chair. He shuts his own eyes. Folcwine had a guard stationed at Thorin’s door. That might not be enough, but he is tired as well. Here might be the only place that they can all sleep in peace until they are back home in their mountains with their kin.

:::

Dwalin is woken up by a kick to his arm. He grabbed for a knife on his belt. He startles – panicked – when he comes up empty handed. He hears a weak chuckle and turns to see his king.

Thorin has pushed himself up to a seated position and he has a grin spreading across his face. Dwalin has not left the room that Thorin was given. He has spent the last several days sitting in the chair by the bed. Sleeping there was less than comfortable, but it was doable and that was what he had been doing when Thorin had kicked his arm.

“Nice nap?”

“Can’t complain. What about you, princess? I think you need more,” Dwalin teases, “several days wasn’t enough to make you beautiful.”

“That’s fine. It still makes me prettier than you,” Thorin retorts.

Dwalin grins. It is nice to see and hear Thorin behaving normally again. It is a relief. The thought of having to tell Dís about his screw up was scarier than having to fight a legion of orcs on his own. The pair sit for several moments and Dwalin’s smile fades and the atmosphere in the dim room becomes far more serious.

“How long have we been here and when can we leave,” Thorin demands as he rolls his wounded shoulder and winces.

“It’s been about half a fortnight and we have to stay for at least another one and a half.”

Thorin frowns. “I can go now,” he moves to get out of the bed.

“Even if _you_ can leave _we_ cannot.”

Thorin pauses and looks at Dwalin. His eyebrows draw down into a frown, “Why?”

“Folcwine paid us handsomely for our goods but in return for that and his extension of his hospitality and his personal healer we agreed to perform work in their forges for them.”

“Why?”

“Orcs.”

Thorin grunts in response as he lays back onto the bed.

“They’ve been facing raids since shortly after the end of the War.”

Thorin makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Anything else?”

Dwalin frowns. There is more. “Yes.” He stands and picks up the oblong bundle that he had slid under his chair. “I saved these. For you and for Dís and the lads.” He place the bundle next to Thorin’s leg.

Thorin does not respond he just looks down at the bundle. There is a lost expression on his face that Dwalin has not seen in many years. It was on the young king’s face often after Azanulbizar, but since then it has made fewer and fewer appearances. “Was he buried?” The words are whispered so quietly that Dwalin almost does not hear them.

“Aye,” he nods his head, “I made sure that his grave was lined with stone. It is not nearly what he deserves, but it is better than just the earth.”

Thorin gives a miniscule nod. “Dís will appreciate that.” His eyes have not left the bundle since Dwalin produced it. His eyes are tight and he says nothing more. Finally he lifts the bundle and unwraps its contents. The green cloak falls away to reveal Vrílí’s double swords. Thorin lifts one experimentally. He gaze travels down the blade to top and back to the leather wrapped handle in his hand. Dwalin can see memories flashing through Thorin’s blue eyes as he looks upon the blade.

_‘Good memories or bad?’_ he wonders.

Thorin heaves a heavy sigh and he carefully place the sword next to him upon the bed. Next he finds the small pouch that was wrapped with the swords. He dumps the contents of the cloth pouch into his open palm. His hand drops when the contents spill out as if they carry a great weight. Thorin rolls the objects with his finger so that they are all facing upwards. Dwalin had gathered the items before they buried Vrílí for his wife and sons; the beads from his hair, the rings from his finger, and a necklace. The stones from the rings flash in the light from the fireplace. Thorin rolls the items around in the palm of his hand for several long moments before quickly placing them back into the pouch and tying it securely. He tucks the pouch into the bundle when he wraps the swords again – his fingers linger on the tooled leather of the scabbards.

Dwalin watches as his king handles the personal effects of his dead brother with care. “My liege.” He says as he moves to kneel by the side of the bed – in front of Thorin.

Thorin’s blue eyes flash and go wide with surprise. While he is the king of his people he is never treated in the same way that other kings are and he has never demanded such treatment. He much prefers the quiet respect of his kin without the pompous affairs and unneeded ceremonies.

“Yes?”

Dwalin bows his head. “I wish to ask your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Thorin asks in a puzzled tone, “Forgiveness for what? You have done nothing wrong that I know of or can see.”

Dwalin does not lift his head. “For my rash, thickheaded behavior before the fight. If I had held my temper all of this may have been avoided. I reacted when a peaceful resolution may still have been reached. Dís will have my beard for the death of her husband since it was my actions that brought about his death. If I had waited for your instruction, Thorin, then Vrílí may still be among us and you would not have taken such injury.” He does not move from his position. He waits listening to the heavy breathing of his injured king.

“Dwalin . . .” Thorin breathes. “No forgiveness is needed. Without you, I would not be here to issue any forgiveness. I owe you my life many times over. I trust your decisions, as does my sister . . . as did Vrílí. At the time, you had no understanding of the situation and your reaction is and was appropriate. If it is my forgiveness that you want then you shall have it even if you do not need it.”

Thorin’s hand – calloused from long hours of labor – grasps Dwalin’s chin and lifts his face so the two dwarves are eye to eye. “Khâzash, there is nothing to forgive,” Thorin says firmly pressing his forehead to Dwalin’s. Dwalin grips Thorin’s shoulder firmly and presses back.

:::

A fortnight later Dwalin walks into Thorin’s room to find his king on his feet and struggle with a clean tunic. His armor is laying in a heap on the bed. “Mahal take it,” Thorin swears and throws the tunic on the floor as he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed making the ropes creak.

“What are you doing?” Dwalin demands, crossing his arms.

“We’re leaving.” Thorin does not turn around as he speaks.

Dwalin grunts. “You need another week. That old man said you need that at least otherwise you might tear up your shoulder. Even if we are done with the work Folcwine gave us.”

“It’s already torn up,” he growls. “I _cannot_ sit here any longer. I haven’t left this room. I just sit here and think about Vrílí. I think about my sister. I think about his children.” His hand curls into a fist as he talks. “If I don’t have something to occupy my mind I am going to go insane. Plus,” he turns his head to look at Dwalin, “if we don’t leave now we might get stuck in the snows and be unable to make it back to Ered Luin.” He sighs and pauses. “After all I’ve done to my sister . . . I have to try not to do anything worse than is necessary. I cannot bring Vrílí back . . . but I can at least make sure that she hears it before the spring thaw. I can make sure that she does not spend months fretting. I can make sure that I do everything I can for my nephews.”

“I’ll tell the men to ready the wagons then.” Dwalin turns on his heel and strides down the hall, his heavy steps echoing in the empty hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The herbs that the healer uses are used for those purposes.


	3. Ered Luin: Thorin's Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and Kíli are in this final installment. Their human equivalent ages are 4 ½ and 2 as they are 9 and 4 years old.

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.  
The massive characters are seared with scars.

\- Khalil Gibran

* * *

  **T.A. 2868, Late Fall – Ered Luin: Thorin’s Halls**

The journey back is uneventful. Thorin spends much of his time in the back of the wagon resting and thinking. He does not talk to anyone else besides Dwalin for the duration of the trip. Even the communication with Dwalin does not stray outside that which is necessary. The tattooed dwarf drives the wagon by himself each day. By the time that they cross the River Lhûn several weeks later, he knows every thread that makes up the canvas covering of the wagon.

The mood in the depleted caravan is morose. No one speaks much, whether it is out of preference or deference to their leader Thorin does not know. However, as they grow closer to their settlement in Ered Luin the mood begins to lighten. As the relief and excitement become palatable among the group Thorin’s mood worsens. He cannot stop imagining how Dis is going to react. _‘How am I going to tell her . . . ?’_ He has spent the past month trying to figure out how to tell his sister that her husband – _‘my brother’_ – is dead.

Dwalin and Thorin’s pessimistic predictions about snow come true. They are only a few days away from their settlement in Ered Luin when snows come. Not heavy snows, but enough to coat the frozen ground and make the ground slippery and treacherous for the sturdy ponies that draw the wagons.

The silent company stops well before nightfall that evening. Thorin chafes at the delay. Intellectually he understands why they stopped. The place was sheltered and isolated from the elements. Must of the land between the river and the mountains are open and exposed and no place to spend a night with northern winds whipping across the land.

The wagons are drawn in a tight circle around the fire. The company had built the fire higher than normal that night. The silence and morose attitude is beginning to drop from the members of the company. The prospect of home and comforts raise the spirts of most of the men except Thorin whose mood only grows fouler with each mile that they cover.

Thorin sits close to the fire with his heavy outer cloak drawn close over the shoulders and the deep hood pulled over his head. Minor snow flurries buffet the wagons and the company. Thorin watches the flakes sizzle in the flames. He scowls as he watches two dwarves clean up after the small meal that they had eaten earlier.

Thorin rolls his shoulder irritably. The scare tissue and wounded muscle that has healed ache with the cold weather. He reaches up and roughly massages the sore tissues of his shoulder. He pauses in his ministrations when Dwalin, his captain, drops squats down next to him. “Yes?” he demands irritably, not even looking at Dwalin.

“A bit grumpy, are we?” Dwalin chuckles as the wind buffets the fur collar of his cloak.

“What of it?” Thorin grumps as he begins rubbing and pulling at his tender shoulder.

“Nothin’. Just thought you’d be looking forward to getting home more than the rest of us,” Dwalin says as he sits down and stretches his legs out in front of him towards the fire. “A real bed, rest, home,” Dwalin lists off drolly. “Personally, I’m looking forward to some real whiskey and teasing Balin.”

Thorin looks across his shoulder to his old friend. “I suppose I am looking forward to a bed, those wagon beds . . .,” he groans theatrically. “But, everything else outweighs my enthusiasm for those physical comforts.”

Dwalin crosses his arms across his chest. “Think about it will only make it worse. You have to tell them, there is no avoiding that. But, to dwell on it . . . bah! It just makes it worse because it prolongs it.”

Thorin stops rubbing his sore muscles and pulls his hands back under the heavy woolen cloak. “I suppose your right. But what else should I think about? The winter supplies? Financial numbers? The village . . .”

“Have you heard one about the busty barmaid and the elf?” Dwalin interrupts abruptly.

**-o-**

The wagon company rolls into the settlement just before sunset almost a week later. The few inches of snow slowed their pace to a crawl. As soon as the first wagon reaches the edge of the settlement, news of their arrival spreads quickly. Soon wives, children, and siblings are swarming out to greet the returning men. Much laughter and conversation are sparked up and the darkening night air is filled with sounds of reunion.

Thorin scowls at the growing crowds while scanning the crowd for his sister’s dark hair and distinctive braids. Part of him hopes that she is busy with the little ones, maybe putting them to bed or feeding them their dinner, and that she will not come out to join the throng. He would much prefer to deal with this family matter in private. He cannot leave the company right now; there are things that must be dealt with as long as he is not engaged in family business. He would also be grateful for extra time. Extra time for himself to think about it and play out the scenario in his head for the thousandth time, but, also, extra time for Dís and her boys to live in a world where their husband and father is still alive and well and coming home to great them with hugs and kisses.

Thorin jumps down from the wagon seat, wincing as the jolting movement jars the still healing shoulder. He immediately begins directing the unloading of the goods that they brought with them from Rohan. The wagons are unloaded quickly, Thorin’s people sorely want the bolts of cloth and other goods and the items are quickly moved to storage places and shops.

“’Rin!”

Thorin turns around just in time for Fíli to collide with his legs. The golden haired dwarfling wraps his arms around Thorin’s knees and stares up adoringly into his uncle’s face.

Thorin reaches down, scoops up his nephew, and grunts theatrically – partially theatricality and partially to cover up a grunt of pain. “You’ve gotten so big!” he says with a grin that feels fake on his face. His stomach twists with guilt as Fíli looks at him with wide, innocent, blue eyes.

“I’m this much taller,” Fíli shouts enthusiastically, holding his fingers a little bit apart.

“I see,” Thorin says distractedly as he scans the crowd. “Fíli, where’s amâd?”

Fíli twists in his uncle’s arms. “She’s over there!” he points. “She was talking to cousin Glóin’s wife.”

Thorin shifts Fíli up so that the dwarfling is sitting on his shoulders. Fíli squeals in delight as he grips Thorin’s head and braids for support. Thorin grasps Fíli’s legs as he makes his way through the crowd. When he brushes past Dwalin, who is talking to Balin, with a grim face Dwalin turns to follow his king. Dwalin keeps close to Thorin’s heels as Thorin makes his way to Dís.

When Dís sees her brother approaching with Fíli perched on his shoulders, she extracts herself from the lively conversation that she was having with Glóin’s wife. “Thorin!” she says with a smile.

Thorin tries, but he finds that he cannot return the smile. His face feels frozen and stiff. His chest feels tight when he sees Kíli clinging to his mother’s full skirts. Dís was no older than Fíli when Smaug sacked Erebor. His chest hurts. He has failed his family. He had promised Dís that he would do everything he could to protect her sons; to make sure that they had a happy childhood that she had lacked.

When Thorin fails to return her greeting and smile her own face falls and becomes serious. “What’s happened?” she demands. When she looks over his shoulder and fails to see her husband’s golden hair and open face, she adds, “Where’s Vrílí? Where is my husband, Thorin?”

Thorin swallows forcefully. He lifts Fíli down off his shoulders and sets the dwarfling on his feet on the snowy ground. “We need to talk,” he says softly. “Can we go home and talk about this?”

Dís’ blue eyes are wide when she tries to meet her brother’s downcast eyes. “Thorin . . .”

“Please, Dís,” Thorin interrupts.

“No, Thorin!” she says forcefully. “I want to talk about it now.”

Thorin refuses to meet her eyes. He looks everywhere except her face and he sees that her hand, which is resting on Kíli’s unruly dark hair, is shaking.

Dwalin’s gruff voice interrupts before either of the siblings can say anything more. “I need help with the ponies.” The tattooed dwarf scoops Fíli up like a bag of barley before picking Kíli up – the dwarfling screeched with laughter – by the back of his shirt, “and you lads would be perfect.” Dwalin strides off with the two dwarfling as they chatter enthusiastically to him.

The outburst has drawn attention to the small family that Thorin did not notice until Dwalin took Fíli and Kíli away. Curious eyes scan over their king and his sister. When nothing happens, the stares dissipate as the surrounding dwarves return to their personal business and conversations.

“Somewhere private, please?” Thorin repeats.

Dís nods her head sharply before turning to make her way back to the home that the family shares. Thorin follows her; he watches the braids in her hair swing with every step that she takes. Everything that his had planned has abandoned him. All that he can think of is the bag over his shoulder and how he has no idea what he is going to tell her. It is as if the journey home never happened and he had not agonized over the upcoming moments for nights on end while sitting by the fire and watching his men.

As soon as the door of their home is shut solidly behind him Dís whirls on him with fire in her blue eyes. “Where is my husband, Thorin?” she demands accusingly.

“Wou-Wouldn’t you like to go into the sitting room?” Thorin asks, flustered by his sister’s attack.

“No, Thorin. I would _not_ like to go into the sitting room. What I would _like_ is to be told where Vrílí is,” she spits out.

Thorin swallows forcefully before speaking; he is a bit taken aback by her fury. “There was a night raid shortly after we crossed the border into Rohan. There was an archer, a boy, really – not too terribly older than Fíli . . . I took an arrow in my thigh,” Thorin’s hand twitches instinctively to touch the place on his thigh where the scar is still knotted and red. “Vrílí . . . he took care of the boy, but the boy’s father was there and he charged us. I was unable to fight properly given the arrow,” he says lamely, “We were fighting back to back. . . . I went down,” Thorin rubs his shoulder in remembrance of the heavy sword chopping into his flesh. “Dwalin stepped in, but . . . Vrílí, he . . .” Thorin trails off, rubbing hard at his chin. When Thorin looks at his sister – arms crossed and heavy eyebrows drawn up in a furious frown – he knows that she understands.

Dís glares furiously at her elder brother for several long moments. Thorin glares back at his sister, refusing the back down from the challenge that is inherent in her anger.

“Why did you let this happen?” she erupts. “How could you let this happen?” she shouts as she walks forward.

“It was a night ambush. There was nothing I could do,” Thorin offers as he takes a step backwards as he tries to maintain some distance between himself and his furious sister. There is a soft thunk when he backs into the closed door.

“You PROMISED me that you would bring him back to me!” she shouts stabbing her finger at his chest. “You promised,” she says quietly before adding in a volume not much louder than a whisper, “he promised.”

Dís’ blue eyes are still burning when she meets Thorin’s eyes despite her quieter tone. “He was supposed to come home! Everyone is supposed to come home!” She pounds her hands down Thorin’s chest.

Thorin winces as her fist slams into his shoulder, but she does not notice as she continues railing at her brother. “Dís, please,” he whispers.

Dís thuds her head into his chest – not noticing her brother flinching away – and smacks his chest with an open palm once last time before she quiets.

Thorin tentatively wraps her arms around his little sister. As he hugs her, he can feel her chest shaking with silent tears. He rests his cheek on the top of her head and strokes her hair. “I never meant for anything to happen to him. You know that, right? He was my brother. I would never have let anything happen to him if I could have prevented it,” he soothes before finishing fiercely, “Our family means everything to me.”

Together brother and sister slide to the floor where Thorin cradles his sister against his chest, comforting her in the same way the he had comforting her sons so many times. The position against the door is uncomfortable and the position and angle of his shoulder makes it ache and sting. Despite his discomfort, he continues to stroke his sister’s hair until she has cried herself out.

Dís’ fists are knotted up in Thorin’s tunic, which is wet with her tears when he ventures to mentioned the bag that he had dropped on the floor by the door. “Khazush, I brought back his belongings for you.”

Dís pulls away at his words to meet his solemn eyes. With her weight removed from his chest, Thorin is able to grab the sack that carries everything of Vrílí’s that was worth bringing home to his wife and sons. Thorin shifts so that he is sitting back on his heels before he opens the bag. He is overly conscious of his movements with his sister’s unforgiving gaze lingers on him.

The first item Thorin removes from the sack is the largest, Vrílí’s double swords. Dís reaches out and takes the swords into her hands almost reverently. Her fingers trace over the designs that she had aided in creating. She partially draws one of them to inspect the blade – bright, clean, blazing, and sharp – _‘Not that it did him much good in the end.’_

“Fíli will want these. These should be his, Vrílí would have wanted that,” Dís says quietly as she slides the sword back into its sheath.

The only other item in the bag is the pouch that contains trinkets. The bag clinks metallically when Thorin drops the pouch into his sister’s outstretched hand. He sits back, watches her open the small bag and sift through its contents. Her gaze and touch stop on the stone.

“Dwalin collected any items that he thought might be of importance.”

“This is of importance,” Dís says quietly with a voice filled with sorrow. She dumps the jewelry back into the pouch. She keeps the stone out and closes her fist around the smooth stone. “It was his promise to me that he would come home,” she explains to her elder brother as she pockets the stone.

Thorin nods.

“Well,” she says matter-of-factly as she wipes her eyes and rises to her feet. “There’s work to be done.” Her face is hard and set with determination. “I have chores that I need to be getting to and you have your own duties.”

Thorin rises to his feet as well. “Surely those can wait?”

“I’ve been through this before, Thorin, just like you.” She straightens her skirts and brushes away any dirt that they collected from the floor. “The best way for me to deal with this is to keep going.” She looks at her brother, her expression softening slightly. “After amâd died, you, Frerin, and adâd needed me. After grandfather’s disappearance, you all left leaving me alone to grow up. And after Frerin’s death, you needed me. I will get through this,” she finishes firmly.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says. Neither of them need clarification for what he is apologizing for.

“I’m sorry, too, Thorin,” she says, meeting his eyes. “I’m mostly worried about how the boys are going to take it. They’re so young . . .”

“I’ll talk to them,” Thorin promises. “I’m sure that they’ll be fine. They have you as their mother,” he finishes with a wry grin.

Dís shakes her head but says, “Thank you.”

**-o-**

Thorin finds Fíli and Kíli with Dwalin in the stables. Fíli is ‘helping’ groom one of the ponies while his little brother balances precariously on the pony’s back. Thorin and Dwalin make eye contact and Dwalin nods curtly before he turns to leave. The rest of the stables are empty except for Thorin and his young nephews.

“Rin!” Kíli shouts in greeting from his place on the pony’s back.

Thorin gives the dwarfling a small smile. “How ya doing, Fíli?”

Fíli turns from his work with a serious expression. “Fine. Why is the pony so dirty?” he asks as he shakes the brush and dust flies from it.

“She had a long journey. She didn’t have time to bathe,” Thorin replies just as seriously.

Fíli wrinkles his nose before turning to return to his ‘work’. Thorin plucks the brush from Fíli’s hands before the dwarfling can start brushing again.

“I need to talk to you boys.”

Fíli looks up at his uncle, “What did Kíli do this time? Did he dump amâd’s flour . . . again?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Thorin says and he scoops Kíli off the pony’s back. “It’s more serious than your amâd’s flour.”

“Amâd seems to think her flour is pretty important,” Fíli grumbles.

Fíli’s discontent grumbling would normally have brought a smile to his uncle’s face, but not today. Thorin leads his elder nephew to a bench that sits in the aisle of the stable. He sets Kíli on his lap. “Aye, that she does,” Thorin admits. “But not as seriously as she takes people stealing pastries before they’re cooled.”

A toothy grin crosses Fíli’s face where it quickly fades when he watches his uncles face. “Is it about adâd?” he asks so quietly that Thorin almost cannot hear him over the soft sounds of the stable.

“Yes, Fíli, it’s about your father,” Thorin says just as quietly.

Tears are already brimming in Fíli’s blue eyes before Thorin begins speaking. “Fíli, Kíli, there was a fight during our journey. Your father fought bravely against the men who attacked us. But, he is dead despite everything we could do.”

“But . . .” Fíli protests through his tears.

“I know,” Thorin soothes pulling his eldest nephew close. The dwarfling buries his face in his uncle’s side.

“Adâ’?” Kíli says with a confused expression his face while he looks at his elder brother.

“Your adâd won’t be coming back, Kíli,” Thorin says in a choked voice.

Kíli looks from his uncle to his brother and back again. “Fee?” The dark-haired dwarfling reaches out and clumsily touches his brother’s face. His small, chubby face bears a confused expression as he sits back and toys with the hem of his yellow tunic. He picks absently at the blue embroidered threads the follow the hem. He occasional looks at his sobbing brother with confusion in his brown eyes.

 _‘Too young to understand,’_ Thorin thinks. He flinches internally when he thinks about the questions Kíli is going to ask over the next several weeks and months. The same questions he asks every time that his father would be away on business. This time, however, the answer will be answered with averted eyes and different words.

Thorin holds Fíli close. When he tries to do the same to Kíli, the dwarfling squirms away to sit further out on Thorin’s lap.

“What’s going to happen to us?” Fíli hiccups tearfully.

“Oh, Fíli,” Thorin says softly. “I’ll take care of you lads and your mother.”

“Forever?”

“As long as you need me I’ll be here. I’ll be here for you until I join the fallen,” Thorin says fiercely as a single tear makes its way down his cheek.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khazush = sister
> 
> This is the end of this fic; however, it is part of a greater storyline about Thorin’s life that is continued in other longer stories and one-shots.


End file.
